


Surface

by graywhatsit



Series: hfhpau [3]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Bad end, Bitterness, Gen, Hat Films, pantsferdinand's au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smith has grown bitter and angry over the years, over his lack of magic ability.</p><p>He doesn't show up for his last year at Hogwarts, and Ross and Trott are very concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surface

**Author's Note:**

> dark stuff
> 
> so much dark stuff

Ever since the ordeal with the Red Man, the time he was finally able to cast a spell, not just a flicker but an inferno, Smith had been trying with everything he had to reproduce it. Long nights in the library, moving on to his dorm room, back to class, grounds, anywhere and everywhere throughout the entire floorplan of Hogwarts became a practice field for him. Ross and Trott, his ever-present friends, cheered him on, offered what support and advice they could, and believed in him way more than he, himself, ever could.

    But _every single time_ he waved his wand, used verbal or non-verbal commands, flung his wand out or gently pointed, nothing happened. His wand stayed a stick in his hand, oddly deep green and not quite as tapered at the end as any normal wand was, and he just stayed a boy, waving the stick around and nearly throwing it, nearly putting someone’s eye out.

    The little embers in his chest did nothing but sit there and smolder, no closer to blazing than they were to extinguishing. They just sat, a tiny sting in his ribcage, almost pulsing with his heart and his determination, but nothing, not once, could ever tear down that wall again. It seemed that it had only grown stronger, thicker over time- it had been broken once, and it would never happen again.

    Sure, people knew of his prowess in potions. He’d been top of the class ever since first year, and- though Headmistress McGonagall had made absolutely clear that it was no longer to exist, not while she was in charge- Professor Slughorn had confessed to him, though hardly in secret, that if it did, he’d be in it for absolute certain, punctuating that remark with a conspiratorial wink.

    He’d made wolfsbane in his fourth year, something even masters had failed at and balked even at the thought of creating, and he’d done it every single month since, tweaking it, making it better as only he could really think to do it. This was it for him, what he was truly the best at.

    It didn’t stop Smith from being bitter. It hurt when they went to Diagon Alley and he could see little children, even toddlers, practicing magic they couldn’t quite control yet. It hurt to see Trott, champion of the wizard duel, defeat opponent after opponent during competitions. It hurt to see Ross remove hexes and curses without blinking an eye, subduing dark creatures before the professor even had a chance to say begin. It hurt to see his parents watching him every single summer, looking for something that truly wasn’t there and never would be, and seeing their utter disappointment and growing anger every time.

    He let it collect where those embers were, hoping that, perhaps, that bitterness and anger would be just the kindling to set the thing roaring once more, finally able to melt away the wall for good. Instead, rather than become the raging ball of fire he had imagined, it simply became cold as ice, sinking in his chest, burying the embers even deeper, under the icy cold surface of stone and ice. Nothing could bring them back, or so they said.

    But Alex Smith would never let something like that stop him. He pulled away from everyone, though not entirely, crafting and weaving the best lie he’d ever come up with to explain it all away, show he wasn’t pulling away, he was just _busy_ , he had _things_ to do. Of course, that was true, but likely not in the sense they all took it- he _needed_ to figure this out. He absolutely had to find a way to destroy that block for good. He would not be left behind, he would not be a failure, he would be the greatest wizard anyone had ever seen.

    No matter what he had to do- pull away from the people he loved so dearly, focus entirely on this work and nothing else, hardly sleep, hardly eat- he would do it. Though not completely, never completely. No matter how single-minded he wanted to be, he could never abandon them entirely. He did take a day or two to be with his companions, and even sent the occasional letter over the summer. Busy, not cutting them out.

    Until their seventh year, when Smith didn’t show up to the Hogwarts Express at all.

* * *

    Children showing up late to Hogwarts wasn’t common in the slightest, but no one among their odd assortment of friends really paid much mind.

    “His family, probably,” Kim had said with a shrug, fingers stained purple from spilled grape juice- thanks, Duncan- drumming on the seat beside her. “You know how they are- probably took him out to some posh school or something.”

    Mark was even less worried. “I bet he just slept in. He’s a lazy bastard, if he’s coming, he’ll get here.”

    Going around to the multiple carriages offered a number of possible reasons why their third hadn’t arrived, from wild conspiracies to the most mundane of explanations, but not a one of them were worried about it. Smith would, as most of them said, show up when he would show up, if he did at all, so there was no need to fuss.

    Ross and Trott, however, weren’t quite so convinced. They’d been inseparable since their first year together, and though there was no _real_ telepathy or mental links, it certainly seemed like it. They were a three, and they would know if there was nothing to worry about. Besides, he hadn’t written them all summer, and they’d hardly gotten to say their goodbyes at the station when they’d gotten in last year, Smith hurrying off with the prim and proper couple that would have to be his parents.

    They realized it their first breakfast at school, upon the delivery owls coming in with packages and parcels galore, only narrowly missing racks of toast and pots of jam, sometimes swiping a treat off of someones plate or outstretched hand before taking off once more. It showed right there, front and center, the photograph of the two prim and proper people, hardly looking worried in the slightest and keeping up appearances.

    **_Smith Heir Declared Missing; Search Continues_**

    Their best friend, the person who had been with them for what seemed like forever, through just about everything, was _gone_. Just like that, without even the slightest notice.

    But he couldn’t be, they wouldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t just be missing- they had their entire lives ahead of them. This disappearing act wouldn’t do, and they got together during their spare time, reading the article over and over, exchanging theories between notes and reading.

    Each week there was an update about the search- the Smiths being such a rich and influential pureblood family, of course they would be covering this story so often- and each time they did the same exact procedure. They needed every clue they could possibly get their hands on, and it really seemed that these articles weren’t enough.

    School wasn’t important, not right now. Finding Smith became their main goal, and they interviewed just about everyone they could possibly think of within the walls of the school who might know anything about the Smith family, or anything about Smith, himself. Not one thing became any clearer, and so they broadened their search. Maybe students wouldn’t know, but perhaps people outside of school would. Spare time was spent now writing letters, searching for something, anything that could possibly get them on the right track.

    They’d graduated by the time they got a reply. Why not check the Smith family, themselves?

    It was an obvious answer, but it was something they didn’t want to face. They knew how Mr. and Mrs. Smith were towards anyone not of their own kind from Smith’s explanations. Racism aside, if he really was dead, as it had been declared months ago, they wouldn’t want to see them any more than they would have any other time.

    But if anyone was going to have any kind of information, it would be them.

* * *

    “Are you ready?”

    Ross took a breath, feeling in his pocket for where his wand set at the ready, just in case. “Yeah. Come on.”

    Carefully, Trott reached up to the knocker, shaped just like the crossed hammer and wand of the Smith family crest, and knocked a few times. Hopefully, hopefully, they’d get somewhere.

    There was no house elf to greet them- there hadn’t been for a few years now, not since Hermione Granger’s ascension to the Ministry- and instead, it was Mrs. Smith, herself. She looked exactly the same as she had in every photograph, every year at the train station- save for a few faint lines under her eyes that they could only just catch.

    “We aren’t having visitors, you’ll have to come back.” Her tone was clipped, somewhat icy, but she had no chance to shut the door as Ross put his hand in the way.

    “It won’t be long. We’re your son’s friends and we’ve been looking for him.” He leaned in a bit. “Where is he?”

    Her pale green eyes narrowed at his tone, leaning back and away from him, distaste clear on her face. “My son? Why should I tell anything to mudbloods and traitors? Be gone from my house, boy.”

    “He asked you a question,” Trott replied, smooth and dark, and his own wand- clenched in his hand the whole time- raised to point at her. “I suggest you answer- where is Alex Smith?”

    Years of dueling prepared him as she reached back for her wand, tucked into the ribbon at her waist. Before she could mutter a word, he flicked his wand, the non-verbal cue sending it flying into his own free hand. “Don’t. Where is he?”

    Disarmed and a bit off guard, she stumbled back. She could do nothing to attack them, but one word from her and her husband was running, quick at her side.

    “What have you done? Get out of my house!” A muttered word and a jet of light shot for the pair of them, this one deflected by the master of hex cures, himself, Ross, bounding right back and sending a whole sleeve of reddened skin and blisters up the man’s arm. A second was also rebounded, coating his other arm in the same kind of welts, and before a third word could leave his lips, even his wand was in Ross’ hand.

    “Now, as we have your wands, it would do you well to answer our question.” Ross’ voice was practically a snarl at this point, and his companion could only just see a faint blue glow playing off the skin around his eyes. “Where is our friend?”

    Subdued and even frightened into silence, Mrs. Smith simply led the way, back into the kitchen, unlocking an old wooden door- the muggle way, they noted- and swinging it open silently.

    “Well?” Trott motioned forward, keeping his wand trained on them. “You go first. Show us what you’re going to show us.”

    Mr. Smith, still nursing his wounds, slowly followed his wife down the stairs, only just able to see the wooden steps under their feet by the light at the wand tips of the boys behind them.

    The first thing they really noticed was the smell. It was worse even than the wolfsbane potion- this was simply the most revolting scent in existence. Rotting food, blood, human waste, the smell of charred wood and spoiled potion ingredients, mixing with the scent of fear and rage and utter bitterness that only Ross could really smell.

    The pale light from their wands washed over the room, and it really wasn’t much better. Broken cauldrons, shattered bottles, piles of garbage and refuse along the walls and across the floor, with a stained table and chairs, even a dish on the ground, as though for dogs.

    A rusted, dull chain was attached solidly to one leg of the table, and they very slowly followed where it led, a cuff locked around the leg of- well, _something_. A twisted mockery of a human shape, hairless and smooth, tall, skinny, and oddly jointed with long, claw-like fingers, raptor-like feet sporting similar claws. The bones of the being were sharply defined, some even poking out and turned a dark green, matching the skin tone of the beast, become some kind of spikes and spines. The face was featureless, save for two big, almond-shaped blue eyes, with cat-like slits for pupils. With an odd, grumbling snarl, the creature leaped for them, held back by the chain.

    “Well,” Mrs. Smith said, a tired, defeated, yet almost cruel smile on her face as she watched them take in the creature in horror, still trying to get at them, seeing the dangling scraps of clothing on the body they couldn’t get near enough to remove, “Don’t you recognize our dearest Alex?”


End file.
